


Karaoke Night

by caravanslost



Category: Rugby Union RPF, XV de France
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 12:29:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2150757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caravanslost/pseuds/caravanslost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Debaty has a karaoke machine. Roro has a plan. Morgan has a bad feeling about everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Karaoke Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lesbleusthroughandthrough](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbleusthroughandthrough/gifts).



> This was an awesome prompt, and I hope that I did it some justice <3 I also hope that you enjoy it, and as ever, feedback and concrit is welcome.

“Tonight,” declared Aurelien.

Morgan had been staring absent-mindedly out of the car window, eyes glazing over the familiar scenery, but Roro's cryptic declaration brought him back to earth

“What?”

Roro continued driving, eyes firmly on the road ahead of him. He didn't so much as glance towards Morgan while answering his question. Instead, he simply repeated himself with self-satisfied determination.

“Tonight.”

“No, I got that part.” Morgan responded irritably. “Tonight _what_?”

“Tonight, you're going to tell Wesley how you feel about him.”

Morgan froze in the passenger seat. Not that Roro seemed to notice, or indeed care. Roro continued to be remarkably clinical about his declaration, as though he had merely commented on the weather, rather than offered to turn Morgan's life upside down.

“How about no?” Morgan finally replied. He tried keeping his tone in line. For now, he succeeded.

But of course, nothing rejuvenated Aurelien Rougerie quite like a challenge.

“Interesting point. Or at least it would be, if I was giving you a choice.” He stopped at a red light and finally turned to look at Morgan briefly. He was smiling.Of _course_ he was smiling. “But for the record, I'm not giving you a choice.”

Morgan's resolve to restrain his tone shook momentarily. However, he took a deep breath and reigned it in. After all, Roro could hardly force the words out of his mouth.

“And let's say that I don't?”

“Then I'll tell him for you.”

Reason collapsed, and Morgan's anger – his comfortable, safe, effective anger – flooded in to take its place.

“What the _fuck_ , Ro?” Morgan shouted.

Roro checked the blind-spot over his shoulder and made a right turn, indifferent to the meltdown happening two feet to his left. “Go on. Throw a tantrum. Get it out of your system.” Roro responded, utterly nonplussed. “But you're not going to change my mind.”

Roro spoke like he was explaining something to a child, and Morgan had no doubt that the tone had been chosen intentionally. Roro had never made a secret of how much he loved taunting Morgan, and Morgan had never been particularly good at resisting the bait.

 _Ten minutes_ , Morgan thought to himself. They were ten minutes away from Vincent Debaty's house. Morgan didn't have very long to steer Roro's mind to a different timezone from his terrible idea.

“It isn't your fucking decision.” He fumed. “I'll tell him when I'm ready. I'm not ready. So I'm not going to tell him.”

Roro shrugged, flicked the signal, and checked for oncoming traffic. “You've had three years, Morgan.”

 _I know_ , Morgan howled inside his head. _I know_. He hated this topic more than anything. His neck felt warm. His ears felt warm. He stole a brief glance in the side-view mirror, and his reflection blushed red at him.

“I need more time.” He insisted, fuming.

“No, you need a stick and a threat. It's getting in the way of your training, it's getting in the way of your game, and it's getting in the way of your common sense whenever you're within three hundred metres of him. You don't need more time. You need an intervention.”

Petulantly, Morgan smacked a hand against the passenger door. “This isn't your decision.”

“I know it isn't. We took a vote.”

“ _We_?!”

Roro couldn't restrain a chuckle at that. “We indeed. But I'm not supposed to tell you who was involved.”

“Great!” Morgan bit back. “And they couldn't think of anyone better than you to deliver the news. Brilliant. Just billiant.”

“Full disclosure?” Roro grinned. “I volunteered.”

 _Well, partial disclosure_ , he thought to himself. One night, almost a week ago and over several beers, a panel of Roro, Julien Pierre, Brock James and Julien Bonnaire had made Morgan's choice for him. However, there had been decidedly less agreement as to who would break the news to Morgan. Roro eventually accepted that he should do it. In terms of pure man-hours, he had probably spent more time defusing Morgan's volatile reactions than the rest of them combined. He accordingly volunteered himself, and asked only that the captaincy devolve to Damien Chouly if Morgan didn't let him go alive.

–

Morgan had been under the impression that a few of them would be gathering to have a few drinks, and they did, for a few hours. However, he was not told that the evening would involve karaoke.

Thomas Domingo, Benjamin Kayser and Damien Chouly seemed to have no idea either. Their reactions to the news covered the entire spectrum of human emotion – enthusiastic delight on the part of Benji, acceptance on the part of Chou, and trepidation on the part of Thomas. Only Morgan felt anxious enough to want to flee.

More than anything, he couldn't work out why Vincent Debaty had a karaoke machine at his house. And it was the big, proper, expensive type to boot. Debaty insisted gruffly to anyone who would listen that the machine wasn't his, and that he had borrowed it on short notice from a friend of a friend. No one pointed out that if the machine had indeed been delivered to him that morning, then he seemed to know how to work it with surprising ease.

Julien Pierre laid down the ground rules. “Okay. The judges are me, Roro and Debaty. We don't have to sing. We only judge.”

“That's unfair.” Thomas protested.

“Life's unfair.” Jupi retorted. “But moving on. Us judges don't have to sing anything, but the rest of you have to sing a song each, at least. We get to choose what you're going to sing. The penalty for refusing to sing is sculling a bottle of beer in one go. Duets are permissible where we feel they're necessary. And Chou's not allowed to suggest songs for anyone, including for himself.”

Chou raised his hands in protest. “Hold up - what?!”

“You're not allowed to pick songs. At all.” Jupi repeated matter-of-factedly. “You'll end up suggesting something odd and obscure that no one's heard of before. And you'll ruin the night.”

“What's the judging criteria?” Benji asked. “Because I don't need to point out that none of us can fucking sing.”

“Pure entertainment value. The harder you make us laugh, the more points you get.”

Thomas absentmindedly reached for a bag of chips and popped it open. “And what's the prize?” He asked between mouthfuls.

“Ah. Yes. Well.” Roro replied, smiling apologetically, looking from Jupi to Debaty. “We haven't quite worked that one out yet. But we promise that there's a prize.”

Morgan folded his arms and reclined back in his seat. He fixed the three judges with an unimpressed look.

“So let me get this straight,” he began. “The rest of us are supposed to do an activity at which we're all terrible, for no reward, so that you can have something to laugh about?”

All three nodded without shame.

“Basically.” Debaty answered.

“Great. Just perfect.” Morgan replied. _Another day at the office._

A tray of alcohol lay on the coffee table in front of them all. Morgan reached for yet another bottle of wine and opened it, pouring himself a generous glass. Next to him, Thomas picked up a glass and held it to Morgan to fill.

Morgan refused to do so. He capped the bottle and placed it near his feet. “Oh no. This one's mine. I'm going to need all of it. Get your own.”

The judges first requested a duet from Benji and Thomas, and in a stroke of genius, Debaty suggested “You're The One That I Want” from Grease. The pair stood up and shimmied without shame all over each other, to much applause and hooting from everyone else. Benji's voice almost gave out trying to keep up with John Travolta's, and he spent half the song trying to smack Thomas on his bottom. Thomas slapped Benji twice in the face.

Following them, Chou got through two minutes of “Never Gonna Give You Up” before Jupi threw a pillow at him and told him to sit down. Next, Debaty broke one of the judges' rules himself and surprised everyone with a competent rendition of “Hooked On a Feeling”.

And then, it was Wesley's turn. Wesley stood up and awaited his fate.

“Am I only allowed to sing?” He asked.

“Karaoke” Debaty replied gruffly. “That's the point.”

“No, I know that. I'm going to sing – but just to clarify, I can dance as well?”

Jupi smilled like an alley cat. “You can do whatever you like, Wes. Just as long as you keep singing.”

“Yessir.” Wesley clapped his hands together in inebriated anticipation. “That I can do. What am I going to sing, then?”

Jupi folded his arms and pretended to think very deeply about the question, but his features left everyone in the room with the distinct impression that a decision had already been made, and probably some time ago.

“Well,” he began, only just managing to feign a serious expression. “Let's see. You want to sing _and_ dance, so that's obviously going to limit the range of songs we can give you. Right, Roro?”

“Quite right.” Roro replied, although he didn't bother with hiding his enjoyment. He caught Morgan's eye, and Morgan responded with a look like poisoned daggers.

“In fact,” Jupi continued, clinical as ever, “I'd say that there's really only one song that we can give you.”

Wesley – tipsy as he was – had picked up on the existence of a scheme of some sort. However, having no knowledge of its purpose – he anticipated it with eagerness. He stood with his hands in his pockets, and bounced on his feet.

“Out with it, then. What am I singing?”

“Ginuwine. Pony.” Jupi informed him, smirking.

Wesley laughed, and without missing a beat, he went to fetch the chair on which Thomas had earlier been sitting. He planted it in the centre of the lounge, in prime position before everyone, and delicately tapped its back.

“I'm going to need a volunteer.” He smiled.

Roro smiled like the devil himself. “Morgan volunteers. Up you get, Morgs.”

Morgan wondered how to tell Roro that he was probably going to end up with a boner, that the evening would end up being supremely uncomfortable for everyone, and that it would be squarely Roro's fault. But he couldn't communicate any of those things out loud, so he stood up and went to sit in the chair. Morgan vengefully wondered how much it would cost to have someone forcefully tattoo the definition of “volunteer” on Roro's chest.

Debaty played the track. Wesley began singing, and everyone in the room – including Morgan – reflected that it was probably a good idea they didn't do karaoke very often. Wesley belted out the song with all the volume and dramatic flair of someone who grossly overestimated his singing capabilities, and whose family and friends were too polite to inform him otherwise.

_I'm just a bachelor_  
_I'm looking for a partner_  
_Someone who knows how to ride_  
_Without even falling off_

But boy, Wesley could dance.

His body swayed slowly, his limbs moving through the air with a grace that required no thought. The others didn't see him dance often, but he clearly knew how to move. Wesley seemed to be the type to practice at home in any case. In front of one or several mirrors, and possibly a video recording device of some description.

_Gotta be compatible ****_  
_Takes me to my limits ****_  
_Boy when I break you off **  
** I promise that you won't want to get off_

Morgan squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. He wasn't hard – yet – but he knew his body well enough to understand that it wasn't far away.

_Just don't touch me. Don't touch me. Please, please, please don't touch me. Not now. Not in front of everyone._

Oblivious as ever, Wesley's hand found its way to the side of Morgan's neck. The touch was light but it felt cold, like ice. Morgan took that as a worrying indication of how warmly he was blushing.

_If you're horny, Let's do it_  
_Ride it, My Pony_  
_My saddle's waiting_  
_Come and jump on it_

Wesley sauntered slowly behind Morgan's chair, and around it once, twice. His fingers traced a path from the base of Morgan's hair line, to his shoulderbone, to the hollow at the front of his throat. As he danced, he looked at Morgan with exaggerated seduction, like they were both in on the joke.

Wesley then straddled Morgan's thighs, his back to Morgan's chest. Morgan figured out what he was about to do half a second before Wesley did it.

_If you're horny, Let's do it_  
_Ride it, My Pony_  
_My saddle's waiting_  
_Come and jump on it_

Wesley began to grind his behind against the front of Morgan's torso. Morgan stopped breathing. He willed his blood to continue circulating rather than to rush between his legs.

Meanwhile, the others had erupted into hysterical chaos. Benji and Jupi gave Wesley a standing ovation. Chou had doubled over on the couch, laughing so hard that he had to clutch at his stomach. Thomas was in much the same state, and reached for tissues on the coffee table to wipe away his tears of mirth. Even Debaty had cracked a smile.

Roro, on the other hand, continued to smile with the satisfaction of a man whose plan was working out precisely as he had hoped it would. Morgan caught his eye and shook his head, as though to suggest _I'm going to kill you_.

_Sitting here flossing_  
_Peeping your steelo_  
_Just once if I have the chance_  
_The things I will do to you_

Morgan desperately consoled himself that this was it. This was as low as he could go, as bad as things could get, and as mercilessly as he could be taunted.

Only then, Wesley turned around on his lap

Having Wesley gyrating anywhere near him was a dangerous activity. Having Wesley gyrating on him while trying to maintain eye contact was so, _so_ much worse.

_You and your body_  
_Every single portion_  
_Send chills up and down your spine_  
_Juices flowing down your thigh_

Ever the performer, Wesley amplified his behaviour for the entertainment of his audience. As he swayed his hips above Morgan's lap, he ran his fingers through Morgan's hair and pulled his head back slightly, exposing Morgan's throat. Wesley sang the remaining lyrics barely inches away from Morgan's ear.

_If we're gonna get nasty, Baby_  
_First we'll show & tell_  
_Till I reach your ponytail_

Wesley eventually stood up and resumed sauntering around the chair. By this point, at least three of the others were laughing so hysterically that they possibly required medical attention. Thomas had fallen off the couch and onto the floor. Jupi had his face buried between two cushions.

And then, eventually, finally, mercifully, the song finished.

Wesley himself burst into tipsy giggles as soon as the track ended. He ruffled Morgan's hair playfully as though to indicate _no hard feelings_ , and then he sat back down. The others took a lot longer to recover. And Morgan? Morgan remained in the chair for a few moments longer, unable to quite come to terms with the embarrassment that had just been foisted so forcefully upon him.

_Relax. At least you didn't get a boner._

It was weak consolation, but Morgan was willing to take whatever comfort he could muster. When he eventually returned to his seat, he poured himself a nice tall drink and scoffed it down far too quickly. And then he poured himself another.

“Morgan.” Jupi said happily, once he had recovered enough breath to speak. “Your turn.”

“I hate all of you.” He declared, wiping his mouth. “Just don't make me do a fucking ballad. I can't do ballads.”

Jupi and Roro exchanged a look that sent a a fresh pang of annoyance coursing through Morgan's veins. He knew what they were going to do – and he loathed himself for giving them the idea.

“Of _course_ you can sing ballads, Morgan.” Jupi reassured him.

“No, I can't.” He insisted snippily. “They're rubbish and sappy and meaningless, and they go on for three minutes longer than they need to at the end.

“Well,” Roro drawled, an idea virtually illuminating his features. “Maybe it would make things easier if you had someone to sing the ballad to?”

Morgan put his glass of wine down and stared at Roro incredulously. _Stop. Stop._ _You son of a bitch._ _Stop._

“I think,” Roro continued, “it's only fair that Wes should sit in the chair for Morgan, right? After all, Morgan did it for him. ”

Everyone around the room except Morgan – although including Wesley, interestingly enough - nodded their agreement enthusiastically.

Debaty spoke next. “Okay, song choices. Who can think of a ballad?”

“I quite liked the Grease theme from earlier.” Jupi offered, looking around at everyone else for approval. “We could keep going with that, couldn't we?”

Morgan shrugged and raised his hands in defeat. The more he protested, the worse it got. Even he knew the cause was lost. “Whatever. I can't even remember any ballads from Grease at the moment. Pick what you like.”

Benji sniggered from his end of the couch. “Well, there's always 'Hopelessly Devoted To You', isn't there?”

“Except that.” Morgan responded quickly. _Anything except that_. He had no interest in serenading Wesley with a song that included lyrics like _I know I'm just a fool who's willing to sit around and wait for you_.

“If you refuse the song we choose for you, you'll have to scull a beer.” Debaty pointed out.

Morgan picked up the bottle of alcohol at his feet and dangled it in front of everyone so they could see just how much he had already consumed.

“Bring it on. I'm going to need all the drink I can get to survive this. Any other recommendations?”

Chou thought for a long moment before finally offering “How about Jason Mraz, 'I'm Yours'?”

“Nope.”

“Boyz II Men?” Thomas chipped in. “You like them, don't you?”

“I guess.” Morgan conceded. “Which song?”

“At the moment, the only I can think of is 'I'll Make Love To You'.”

The suggestion was met with a look of utter contempt.

“Then how about Whitney Huston?” Jupi asked. “'I Will Always Love You' is a nice song. What do you think?”

Morgan finished his drink and gave every single person in the room a withering look.

“I think you can all go get fucked. I'm going to go to the bathroom, and then I'll be back to humiliate myself for your pleasure. Choose for while I'm gone.”

A round of cheers erupted around him. Morgan figured he should have been used to the joy they took in his discomfort by now. He also figured that he should have stopped reacting as they expected him to do. But right now, he was drunk, he had received a public lap dance from the love his life, and he was about to declare his feelings through the medium of song. Morgan reached for a new bottle of wine and kept it next to the first. He'd attack it when he came back. But for now, he excused himself and made his way to the bathroom.

Morgan shut the door behind him but didn't lock it. He'd only be a minute, and he only needed to wash his face.

The sting of cold water on his face felt good. He took a few deep breaths, splashed his face a few more times, and dried himself off with a towel.

Before he could take a proper look at himself in the mirror, there was a knock on the bathroom door.

“Yes?”

“Morgan? You in there?”

It was Wesley.

Whatever calmness Morgan had enjoyed a few seconds beforehand scattered into ash, and he felt his stomach sink into the floor.

“I'll be out in a second, Wes.” He replied, the tone of his voice sounding calmer than his feelings.

“No – don't bother. Can I come in?”

 _Come in?_ Morgan thought to himself, confused. He opened the door anyway, allowed Wesley to come in, and then he closed it.

“I came to check on you. Are you okay?” Wesley asked. He was tipsy – so very, very tipsy – but the question was honest and earnest. He sounded like he knew what he was asking, at least.

“I'm fine. They're just being dicks. Nothing new.” And to reassure Wesley, Morgan tried smiling.

“Don't worry about them. They don't matter. Just ignore them. Roro especially.”

There was no doubt at all that Roro's favourite target on the team was Morgan. There was also no doubt that his second favourite target was Wesley. This wasn't the first time they had bonded over the particular experience of being in Roro's crosshairs, and it wouldn't be the last.

And yet, Morgan couldn't quite shake his concern about what Roro had said to him earlier in the night. _I'll tell him for you_.

The thought alone made him want to flee the country.

_Tonight, you're going to tell Wesley how you feel about him._

Morgan took a deep breath. “But you understand why this is happening, right? You know why he's doing this?”

Wesley didn't answer. His gaze was gentle and inquisitive. It didn't assume anything, and it didn't threaten with judgment.

Maybe the bottle of wine did the trick, or maybe it was Morgan's fear that Roro would break the news first. In either case, his next few words tumbled out of their own accord. They didn't even pause at the tip of his tongue, awaiting a final and frenzied decision.

“I think I love you, Wes.”

In the silence that followed, several thoughts crossed Morgan's mind. All of that waiting. All of that agony, and that pain, and those lost nights of sleep … it seemed ridiculous that he had put himself through all of that so that he could blurt out his feelings unceremoniously in Vincent's Debaty's bathroom.

And then, mercifully, Wesley smiled.

“I know.”

“Sorry, what?”

“I said, I know.”

_What kind of fucking answer is 'I know'?!_

But that thought was a long thought - a whole sentence - and Morgan's mouth was far too dry to string more than three words together at once.

“How?” He asked instead.

“Because I love you too, you idiot.”

Now, it was Morgan's turn for silence.

“ _Sorry_?”

“I said, I love you too. You idiot.”

 _No way_.

“Wes, you're drunk.”

“So are you.”

“Yeah - but I _meant_ it when I said it.”

“Well, so do I.”

Morgan leaned back against the bathroom cabinet to steady himself. He was reeling.

“So – what happens now?”

Wesley's smile became conspiratorial.

“Now, we go back to the lounge, and you embarrass yourself trying to sing like Olivia Newton-John. But before we do that -” Wesley locked the bathroom door, raised a finger to his lips, and said, “ - you're going to have to be very, _very_ quiet.”

–

Later that night, Morgan caught a ride home with Roro. Roro hadn't had very much to drink. He usually preferred to stay relatively sober and keep gleeful tabs on everyone else.

“I told him.” Morgan said suddenly. “I told him before you could.”

“Is that so?” Roro replied.

Roro's tone lacked surprise or delight. When Morgan turned to look at him,he caught Roro smirkinh, and suddenly, all the pieces clicked into places.

“You – you _knew_ I'd tell him first, didn't you?”

“Perhaps.”

“Fuck you. Fuck. You.”

But he wasn't angry. How could he be?

After Wesley divulged his feelings, he had locked the bathroom door, pushed Morgan against it with urgency, and proceeded tokiss him to within an inch of his life. Morgan's knees probably would have given way had Wesley not pinned him back so tightly. The skin on his neck still seared where Wesley had bitten it, and he expected to find a bruise or two on his hips in the morning as well.

“So I presume,” Roro began, “that Wesley finally told you how he felt as well?”

“You _knew_?”

“Morgan. _Everyone_ knew.”

The revelation dizzied him as much as it stoked his anger. “Then why the _fuck_ did no one think to tell me?”

“I won't lie. Watching you two pine hopelessly over each other was highly entertaining.”

“Remind me again whyI'm even friends with you?” Morgan felt like he asked Roro that question at least once a week.

Roro briefly took one hand off the wheel to nudge Morgan playfully in the head. “Ah, come on. We all knew you two would figure each other out eventually. We just decided to have a bit of fun with it in the meanwhile.”

Morgan rolled his eyes and relaxed back into his seat. Instead of harassing Roro – a task at which he knew he'd never succeed – he replayed the evening's events over, and over, and over, and over in his mind's eye. He felt like he'd been drugged with happiness. A sensible corner of his mind told him to slow down, that it was only the first night, but then he recalled the lingering look that Wesley had given him at the end of the night, and his joy swallowed everything.

Morgan was so caught up in his thoughts that he only realized they weren't on the way to his house when the car pulled up and stopped outside a different address. He looked out of his window, and then he looked to Roro.

“Ro.”

“Morgan.”

“This isn't my house.”

“Correct.”

“This is – Wesley's house.” The lights were on inside. Morgan could make out a vague silhouette against the curtains of one of the rooms.

“Two out of two. Well done.”

“Why?”

“I'm under instructions to bring you here.”

Morgan's stomach churned, and not in an unpleasant manner. “Whose instructions?”

“Wesley's.”

 _Oh_.

Roro smiled at him, and for once, it wasn't smug. In fact, if Morgan didn't know any better, he could have sworn that Roro almost looked _happy_ for him.

“I think now is the point where you get out of my car.” Roro pointed out.

Morgan unbuckled his seat belt and got out of the car. He gave Roro one final wave and made his way to the front door of Wesley's house.

Behind him, Roro wound down the passenger window. An embarrassingly loud reminder to “make good choices!” echoed around the street. Morgan turned back, gave him a smile and two raised middle fingers, and finished walking up the driveway

Wesley opened the door for him and waited. As soon as Morgan was within arm's reach, he pulled him in and shut the door.

“I hope,” Wesley whispered in his ear, “that you told him that you're going to be calling in sick for the next week.”


End file.
